


Break You Like a Fever

by CatBones



Category: Slayer (Band)
Genre: Begging, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Extreme Submission, Fingerfucking, M/M, Obedience, Objectification, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, The Slayer fandom is seriously sleeping on this pairing and needs to wake up, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25239364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatBones/pseuds/CatBones
Summary: Jeff knows that Tom enjoys being used—He just didn't imagine it would be to this degree.
Relationships: Tom Araya/Jeff Hanneman
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Break You Like a Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hi. Just figured I'd take a break from my god-awfully long Metallica fic to bring y'all this bit of shameless smut. This wonderful little piece of writing is absolutely and 100% inspired by this [clip of Tom being used as a chip bowl at 8:56](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q7MNyf_Zx5A); naturally, that made my horrible Kink Brain completely McFucking lose it and this happened as a result. You're welcome.

Three light raps at the door are enough to have Jeff swearing under his breath.

_No, he’s not partying tonight._

He doesn’t care how much Kerry will beg him to come out; He’s never been a partier, never will be. He’s more than happy to stay in his hotel room and watch B-grade horror flicks on the cable, kill a half-dozen Heinekens and just enjoy his night. He can see it in his mind’s eye—snappy little Kerry, all decked out in spikes and leather and spitting fire, three sheets to the wind, and Jeff just sighs as he swings open the door because he had this conversation once already and isn’t afraid to have it again. Who he doesn’t expect to see, however, is _Tom._

“Hey, Jeff,” there’s something about the uncertainty straining his voice that has Jeff ushering him in without another word, and the bassist makes himself comfy in the chair in the corner of his hotel room. They’ve known each other for forever, anyways, so it’s not like his actions are particularly unwelcome—as a matter of fact, Jeff is happier to see Tom than anyone else at the moment. Still, there’s something that can be read in the lines that crease the bassist’s brow, the way his mouth is pulled into a tight seam instead of that loose smile, that has the guitarist wondering what’s whittling away at him.

“Alright. What’s eating you up,” Jeff’s tone is cool, flat, and the way he phrases it is more of a demand for answers and less of a question as he pops the cap off a beer and hands it off to the singer, who just clings to it like a ball that will bounce if dropped. Tom’s face is calm but cautious, yet he can’t hide the worry that seeps through because Jeff knows him well— _too well—_ and the pair may as well be sharing a headspace because the guitarist’s intuition has always been dead on.

“This may be weird...” he starts and Jeff just cuts him off with a bark of a laugh.  
“Weirder than spikes, leather, inverted crosses, and screaming about butchered babies? Go ahead, Tom.”

The bassist’s smile is easy because it comes to him naturally—at least in Jeff’s company—and he tosses his head as he takes a noisy gulp of his beer. The blond catches a glimpse of something in Tom’s expression that gives away the fact that he might not be here for any reason in _that_ particular vein of “weird”. _Oh. Alright._

“Yeah. Definitely weirder.”  
“Try me.”  
“Alright,” the bassist starts and immediately he feels regret starting to crystallise in his chest, but he pushes through anyways. “You know…you know how I passed out on the phone in the press room the other day and the concert promoter punked my ass by putting corn chips in my hand and using me as a bowl?”  
“Ah…” Jeff’s tone is contrite. “Yeah, that was my idea. Sorry. Me, him, and Kerry were just being dickheads and thought it’d be funny.”  
“...That was your idea?”  
“Yeah. Sorry.”

The way that Tom runs his tongue across his bottom lip has Jeff swallowing down a ball of nerves in his throat—he’s seen that look before _,_ all in situations that involved significantly more beer and significantly less clothes. His gut instinct was dead on when he picked up the hungry sheen in Araya’s eyes and it’s exciting, but he keeps his expression flat. Tom can smell neediness like blood in the water—Jeff would know, he’s been on the receiving end of that stare many times. _Many._

“No, no, it’s fine,” Tom lowers his eyes to the rim of his beer. “I’m not mad at all.”  
“Oh. Okay. So what’s up, then?”  
“It’s just…like,” his words are snagging in his throat now like they have hooks. Why is this suddenly so hard to admit? It’s not like he and Jeff are strangers.  
“You alright, Tom?”

The singer stiffens his posture and lifts his eyes to meet Hanneman’s. They’re sharp and keen, brimming with something unreadable to anyone but Jeff.

“Look, you know what I’m like and you know what I like, and we’ve fucked around enough times to hopefully not make things too weird, but—the idea of being objectified like that? Being used? I just…I want more of that. From _you.”_

Jeff is silent for just a moment too long and Tom shifts his weight nervously in his chair—he had a feeling it would go down like this. _Fuck._

“…I’m gonna need to go grab some beer.”  
“ _Dammit,_ no. Just…forget I even asked. I’m sorry. This was way out of left field and it’s a weird request, even for myself.” He rises from his seat and prepares to head for the door.

“ _No_ ,” Jeff’s voice snaps like a belt and it sends a chill running through Tom, snagging him mid-stride and pinning him there.

“Corn Chips won’t work with what I have in mind for you.”

* * *

It’s too easy getting Araya out of his clothes.

By the time Jeff returns from the liquor store, Tom is completely naked, kneeling on the floor, hands behind his back—just as instructed.

“Such a _good boy_ ,” Jeff purrs when he sees him, even though he wasn’t expecting any less. This isn't the first time they've done this; they've been fooling around for quite some time now, have had some healthy experimentation in domination and submission, and how they both know how to scratch each other's itches right where they need them is more than mutually beneficial. But the fact that Tom is now coming to him with these requests at his own volition— _wanting_ to be used and to submit and to please because it's not just sexually gratifying for Jeff, but for _himself_ —has the guitarist feeling just a bit more than giddy, even though his too-well-practised pokerface won't let any of that elation bleed through. 

The guitarist closes the door behind him and sets the six pack of Heineken down before shortening the distance between himself and his bandmate with a few long strides. Tom is obedient and doesn’t move—knows better than that—even as Jeff traces the curve of his jaw with a rough finger. The guitarist sees the full body tremor that swells in his subject and he circles him like a bird of prey before taking a knee behind him, pressing his nose up to the shell of his ear. Tom’s swallow is audible and Jeff seizes the opportunity to growl out his next command, deep and low in his throat.

“You want to be used? I’ll fucking use you. You’re an object now, and you know what? I always wanted my own personal beer table.”

Already conditioned from prior sessions, Tom doesn’t think twice before responding with a “ _Yes, sir”_ , but this round is different: Jeff brings a punishing hand down on the bassist’s bare ass and follows up by clutching him by the jaw. He wrenches Tom’s head in just the right way that their eyes meet and when they do, Jeff can see that his bandmate’s are wide and crazed and _so fucking hungry_ , and it makes his stomach tie itself in knots.

“No noises,” the blond snarls out, “Tables don’t talk. And, now, neither do you.”

Tom barely has a moment to catch his breath after Jeff releases him before the guitarist’s ministrations continue, and it only takes a second for the blond to snag a bottle of beer from the six-pack, crack it, and wag it in front of his face like some sort of cruel gesture.

“This is going on your head. Spill it and it’ll be more than just your ass that’s getting beat tonight. Got that?”

Even though Tom remains dutifully silent, the sound of his heart pounding in his skull is a jackhammer. It couldn’t be racing any faster and he feels like he’s balanced on pins and needles because _jesus fucking christ_ , this is everything he wanted.

“Good.”

Then, the lightest of pressure on top of his head as Jeff rests the Heineken on him. The bassist straightens his posture; slowly, s _o slowly_ as to not upset the bottle, and Jeff hums out a noise of approval. Tom closes his eyes and concentrates. The sensation of the bottle, the rhythmic drumming in his chest, his quivering breath all command the highest degree of control, and then he hears it—the unmistakable zip of a fly being undone.

He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know what’s suddenly pressing against his lips.

“ _Open.”_

Tom doesn’t hesitate; he opens his mouth as carefully as he can because who knows what’ll happen if that bottle falls, and then Jeff is slipping his cock past his lips. The guitarist’s motions are atypically _gentle_ —Tom knows that Jeff would never intentionally topple the beer on his head—but he’s not making this any easier, either. What the guitarist _is_ doing is calculating how far he can push the bassist’s boundaries, see how much he can make him bend before he breaks.

“Tongue. Use it,” there’s a sharp edge to Jeff’s voice and Tom complies. He slowly glides a tongue along the underside of the guitarist’s shaft, now sunk halfway into his mouth, and is met with praise, groaned out from the pit of Jeff’s belly.

“ _More.”_

Again, Tom obeys. He laps Jeff’s cock, swirls his tongue around the head and when he hollows his cheeks and gives him the tiniest amount of suction, the blond grinds out a laugh.

“You’re just _so_ eager to please, aren’t you?”

The bassist cracks open an eye to look up at his bandmate and when he finds his gaze, it’s easy to read through the deep blue and see the neediness clouding them over like a thick fog. There’s just something about that neediness that excites Tom and he gets ahead of himself, falling into old patterns and attempting to sink down more of Jeff’s shaft. His motions are just a little jerky and something in his stomach drops like a brick when he feels the bottle sway precariously on top of him.

“ _Careful_ ,” comes Jeff’s warning and then his blood is freezing like ice in his veins as he stills himself. He glances upwards once more and catches the sneer that Jeff sends down at him, backlit by the overhead lamp that frames him like a fucking _halo_ and the visual alone punches him right in the gut _._ If Tom wasn’t painfully hard before…he sure as hell is _now._

“Tell you what...let’s try something different,,” Jeff toys with a thought and then he’s pulling his cock from Tom’s mouth with a wet _pop,_ and follows up by relieving his bandmate of the bottle resting on his head. The moment Tom feels the pressure lift, he allows his shoulders to sag as he unclenches his muscles and releases the tension he’s been carrying in them. Relentlessly and without warning, the back of Jeff’s hand connects with his jaw, filling the room with a satisfying slap and leaving the bassist completely stunned.

“ _Did I say you could fucking move?”_

Tom stays totally still, his obedience more than a silent apology to the guitarist.

 _“Good boy,”_ The praise rolls effortlessly off Jeff’s tongue and every damn time they have the same effect of making Tom’s cock stiffer than a board. “Now As I was saying…Since you’re so eager to please me, let’s switch things up a bit. On the bed. On all fours. _Now.”_

The bassist scrambles to do what he’s told. He hoists himself onto the bed and gets on his hands and knees, balancing his weight as best as the worn mattress will let him. He feels the corner sink down as Jeff rests his weight with a knee propped on it and the guitarist leans in to trail a finger down the column of Tom’s spine. He ghosts over each vertebrae like speed bumps and it makes the muscles in the bassist’s belly clench, because as delicate as Hanneman’s touch is, it feels absolutely _overwhelming._ Jeff is practically singing his praise for his good behaviour— _Look at how good you are; You’re so beautiful when you’re silent and obedient; Don’t you enjoy being my property?_ —and he drinks it up like liquor.

Then, he hears the sounds of three more beers being cracked and his fingers curl into the bedsheets. It’s easy to predict what’s about to come next.

Still, he nearly bolts up in shock when the first ice-cold bottle is balanced neatly between his shoulder blades. Then Jeff places one lower. And lower. And lower, until four bottles are lined perfectly along his spine, dotting it like pinpoints on a map. Tom stifles out a whimper, careful to not let too much noise escape but he just can’t help it—it’s the perfect blend of subjugation, humiliation, and loss of control that’s stretching his nerves like a rubber band about to snap—and from behind him Jeff’s laugh cracks like a whip, equal parts amusement and warning.

“You know how to behave. _Watch yourself_.”

Jeff rounds his fingers over the curve of Tom’s ass before giving one cheek a squeeze and sinking lower. It’s not hard to find the bassist’s cock that hangs painfully neglected and exposed between his thighs, and the blond curls his fingers around it and gives it a good tug.

“You’re not _enjoying_ this, are you?”

Knowing better than to speak out of turn—because Tom is obedient—the bassist pushes down the whine that claws up his throat and bites down on his lip instead as the guitarist starts up a steady rhythm with his hand. He hears Jeff spitting into his palm and then suddenly there’s something poking at his ass and, just, _fuck._ Jeff sinks a finger down to the knuckle and it’s all Tom can do to stay upright on trembling arms.

“Objects _don’t_ make noise,” Hanneman’s reminder is stern and it has the bassist curling his fingers into his palms so hard that his knuckles crack.

Jeff is quick to add another finger as he continues administering pump’s to Tom’s cock, twitching and stiff, and the guitarist swirls a thumb over the slick that’s gathered on his head. Another stifled whine barely escapes and then Jeff is cramming a third finger inside of the bassist, biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep his own noises from spilling out because _fucking christ,_ Tom always looks so good when he’s at his mercy.

While Jeff is getting off on his power-play, Tom is simply trying so hard to keep those bottles balanced—keep them perfectly still—but with the gentle rocking of the guitarist’s fingers in his ass, he’s not sure how long he can hold it together for. Jeff is purposely pushing him to the edge.

That precipice comes all too quick, however, and the attention split between getting his cock stroked and his ass finger-fucked has Tom cumming right into Jeff’s hand as the rubber band in his belly snaps, causing him to spurt thick globs of white across the guitarist’s fingers. He lets his shoulders heave on an exhale as his climax crests and then— _oh shit._

He feels the bottle resting between his shoulder blades wobble, tip, and then fall.

Jeff’s reflexes are fast—too fast for someone who has spent the evening killing six packs by himself—and the beer is in his grasp before it hits the bed.

“ _Oh no,”_ there’s a predatory edge to his voice that chills the air in the room. He takes a pull from the Heineken before resting it on the nightstand. “That’s not good. I gave you an _order_ to be careful; not a suggestion.”

Tom doesn’t stop the audible swallow—it feels like his stomach is pushed up into his throat now and he really can’t help it. He’s now equal parts terrified and excited because while he was trying his hardest to do as Jeff commanded, a large part of him has been consumed with a burning curiosity upon hearing the guitarist’s first warning about the repercussions if he were to let the beers tip over.

“ _Scared_ ?” Jeff hones in on his bandmate’s anxiousness like a homing missile and uses it as leverage. One by one, he removes the bottles from their spots on the bassist’s back, allowing his touch to linger for just a few seconds too long and drinking in the sound of Tom’s breath as it hitches in his throat. “ _Good_ . You should be.”

Tom can feel the weight of his bandmate depressing the mattress behind him now and something grabs him by the hips, hoisting him further up on his knees. As Jeff’s strong hands stabilise him, suddenly there’s the sensation of something poking up against his ass and he clamps his teeth down on his lip; He _really_ hopes that’s what he thinks it is. There’s pressure, more pressure against his entrance and it takes every ounce of self-control to stop himself from grinding his hips back into Jeff’s cock. Then, the guitarist pulls away.

“Oh, I know you want it,” Hanneman growls, thumbs digging into Tom’s hips with the intent to bruise. “I can tell just from the way your breath is catching on itself that you want me to fill up your ass— _don’t you?_ ”

“ _Fuck,_ Jeff,” Tom hisses out between clenched teeth, unable to keep himself collected now, and this misstep is all he needs. Jeff slaps the flat of his hand down across the bassist’s ass, wrenching out a delicious moan, and seeing Araya just _squirm_ in his grasp is enough to ignite the blood in his veins like acetylene. 

“Since you’re so insistent on using that mouth of yours, why don’t you use it to _beg_ , then?”

The command sucks the air out of Tom’s lungs—if he couldn’t breathe before, he’s _choking_ now, and he feels Jeff’s weight shift behind him. The grip on his hips tightens and he pinches off a whine through his nose.

“ _Well?_ Get begging, slut _._ I don’t have all night.”

The bassist collects himself— _okay, give Jeff what he wants and he’ll give you what you need—_ but this act of humiliation just carries _so_ much more weight than being used as a beer rack. If Tom hadn’t just orgasmed, he’d be getting hard all over again.

“Please,” is all he manages, letting the word bubble out slowly.

A hand cracks across his ass again and he lets out a yelp—god, the sting is _so fucking good_ that it’s almost tempting to draw it out longer with bad behaviour.

“Please, _who?”_ the grit in Jeff’s voice is enough to send a chill down Tom’s spine.  
“Please, _sir.”_ _  
_“Please, sir, _what?”_ _  
_“Please, sir, _fuck me._ ”

Jeff pauses for just a second, thumbs digging into the bassist’s sides and letting the tension dangle in front of Araya like a carrot on a stick. He _knows_ how badly the older man wants this. _He knows._

“Try again.”  
“Please, _sir,”_ Tom whines, voice cracking just a hair on the _sir,_ “ _Please fuck me.”_ _  
_“That’s still not very convincing.”  
“ _Please, sir,_ ” the bassist tries again, this time rolling his hips back, desperate for friction. “ _I want you to fuck me, sir.”_

Tom can hear the breath that rattles out of Jeff’s chest, dark and heavy and in need of release, and he inwardly smiles knowing he’s still just as capable of pushing his bandmate’s buttons, too.

“Will you please fuck me now, sir?”  
“No.”  
“ _Please,_ sir?”  
“Keep begging.”  
“ _Please,_ I want you to fuck me—you’ve been enjoying using me as an object, now you can enjoy using me as just another hole to be fu—“

Another painful slap to his ass cuts him off mid-sentence and then there’s fingers twisting in Tom’s hair, wrenching him back. He can feel Jeff pressed flush against his back now, feel the mouth against his ear and the rough scratch of chin-stubble as it scrapes against his cheek

“ _Harder._ Beg _Harder.”_

It’s clear from the ragged edge in his voice that the blond is starting to slowly unravel, drunk off the gratification of having his bandmate pressed firmly under his thumb, and Tom only grasps the opportunity and runs with it.

“I only want to please you, sir,” the bassist chimes as he arches his back into the guitarist, knowing very well that the close contact will serve to edge him further and his action is met with a growl. “I _want_ you to use me _.”_

“How?”  
“I want you to fuck me—get what you want out of me.”  
“ _How?”_ _  
_“ _Please_ — _Please,_ just fucking _use_ me, sir. Use me like an object—like—like some kind of cheap toy.”

There’s teeth on his earlobe now and Tom can’t hold back the shiver—his whole body is trembling, now that he comes to realise it—and it’s completely exacerbated by the hand that’s now hungrily raking at his thigh.

 _“Please,_ sir,” Tom can hear his own breath growing frayed and he silently prays that Jeff will be done toying with him soon, “I just want you bury your cock in me, use me for your own pleasure, and—”  
  
“ _Shut up,”_ Jeff snarls out as he silences the bassist with a sharp yank on his hair, and it makes Tom feel like there’s a hot iron in his belly. “You wanna be fucked so badly? Well, you’re gonna get _fucked.”_

With that, Jeff shoves him face first into the mattress and hoists his hips up, allowing himself to line up perfectly with his ass. The bassist lets out a wheeze when a boot is planted firmly into the square of his shoulders before Jeff hikes a leg up and mounts him. _Fucking hell_ _, Hanneman wasn’t lying when he said he was gonna get fucked._

Tom hears the telltale sound of Jeff spitting into his palm and then in one sharp thrust, the guitarist pushes in and sinks down, hilting himself completely. The bassist can’t stop the moan that gushes out of him and he’s glad that it’s somewhat stifled by the mattress because, _fuck_ , it’s a loud one _._

“That’s right—fucking _take it all.”_

Hanneman doesn’t fuck around—for a complete lack of better words—and as soon as they’re connected at the hip, he’s quick to start up a punishing rhythm. Tom can’t help the sounds escaping him now—finally having Jeff ploughing into him full-force just feels _too fucking good—_ and having his ass stuffed with his bandmate’s generously sized cock has him more than just shaking and breathless. White knuckles grip at the sheets as Jeff’s heel comes down firmer in the space between his shoulder blades, and Tom responds to each of the blond's thrusts with a sharp whine. It doesn’t take long for Hanneman to quicken his pace—he won’t last for much longer—and Tom is practically smiling into the sheets as he’s fucked seven shades of stupid.

With one sharp snap of his hips, the guitarist finally bottoms out, balls-deep in his bandmate, and doesn’t still himself until he’s spilled his entire load inside of him. Stars fill his vision as he cums and the feeling of Araya bucking his ass back into him only helps to amplify his climax.

He waits for the haze to clear before pulling out and rolling off of Tom, flopping onto the bed next to him as he tries to catch his breath. When he looks over to see the bassist, still face down in the sheets, he can’t stop from feeling like he overdid it when he catches a glimpse of the heel-shaped stamp between his shoulders. Paired with the bruises collecting on those thin hips and the outline of fingers across his cheeks, it looks like someone threw the singer through a meat grinder.

“Hey, Tom. You alright? You're pretty banged up,” He asks in-between heaves of his chest. The older takes a moment to collect his bearings before rolling onto his side and letting their gazes meet.  
“Better than alright,” Tom assures him as he, too, tries to catch his breath. He shoots Jeff an easy smile, so broad and beautiful, and it does more than to just help calm the guitarist’s nerves.  
  
“Just checking. I was a bit rougher than usual.”  
"Not even, it was _good_."  
"For sure?"  
“Yeah. Fucking incredible. We’ll have to do it again.”  
“Not too soon, though. We still got half a tour leg left and I can’t kill you— _yet_.”  
“Oh god, no. I don’t even wanna think about the shit you’ll do to my corpse if I die on tour.”  
“ _C’mon_ , Tom,” Jeff fires back with a sound that’s equal parts snort and laugh, “I write one— _one—_ song about fucking a dead body and you never let me live it down. Kerry helped write it, too! Go give him shit for a while, why don’t you?”

The bassist just dissolves into laughter and Jeff is quick to join him.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to get back to the party soon, huh?” Jeff eventually adds as he peels off his shirt and jeans, a not-so-subtle way of gauging where his bandmate's interests lie.  
“Nah,” the bassist is quick to respond and he slowly inches across the bed, closer to Jeff, and curls up against his chest like a cat. “I’m done partying for tonight. I was honestly looking for an excuse to tap out, anyways.”  
“Well, you can always crash here?"

They both know the answer, but Jeff extends the offer out of courtesy anyways. He circles an arm over his bandmate as he makes himself a bit more comfortable and can hear him yawn. They’re both exhausted from the night’s show and the wear and tear is starting to make itself evident.

“I’d like that, Jeff. If that’s okay.”  
“Absolutely.”

He can feel Araya’s smile against his chest and in turn, he smiles back. They're already starting to doze off, but the pair manage one last exchange before sleep finally takes them.

“See you in the morning, Jeff?”  
“See you in the morning,” the guitarist confirms and he presses a kiss to Tom’s forehead. “Sleep well, Tom.”

  
  



End file.
